


Necronomicon - Dust to Dust

by rightsidethru



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Deathly Hallows, Dream Stalking, Dubious Consent, Ignotus Peverell!Harry Potter, M/M, Master of Death, MoD!Harry Potter, Necromancer Harry Potter, Reincarnation, Voldemort's Idea of Courting Presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-08 15:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: It all starts on Halloween.





	Necronomicon - Dust to Dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrenchcoatRats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatRats/gifts).



_Samhain, 1981_

The pitter-patter of falling debris was a constant sound as the house settled in bits and pieces once the various battles had ended and only death and loss remained.

As time continued to pass, moments stretching away long past the witching hour, the darkness of shadows--inky-black and layering the corners of the rooms of the decimated house--deepened further, shifting into something _Other_ before finally solidifying to step into physical existence. The shift of the atmosphere in the nursery was enough to finally quiet a toddler's sobs, and the child looked up to see a hooded figure slowly begin to approach his mother's too-still body.

Eyes widening in instinctive horror, the child pulled himself upright to hang the upper portion of his body over the top of his crib. "No!" he cried as the figure continued to approach, the outermost portion of shadows just brushing the red silk of the mother's hair. "No! No, Mama! _No!_ "

Just as the dark figure was about to lean down to hover over Lily Potter's body, her eyes snapped open, chest expanding in a heaving, wheezing breath. She continued to gasp for air as her son began to sob in earnest once more, nearly falling out of his crib as he tried desperately to reach for his mother with grasping hands and muted whimpers.

"Mama! Mama, Mama, Mama! _Mama!_ "

Slowly, so slowly that it was hardly noticeable in the very beginning, the child's mother began to rot.

Flesh sloughed away from bone, decomposing at a faster--and then faster still--rate, leaving behind a woman who could barely be defined as _human_ , each breath a sobbed gasp of pain. The effort obviously a Herculean effort, Lily Potter turned her head to the side to look up at her child, half of her face already melted away. "Let me go, baby," she whispered, a hand feebly reaching up towards the crib and her bawling child. "Let me go."

The toddler wailed in loss and terror both at hearing his mother's command--but could do little enough against it. Magic surged throughout the nursery, darker than the spaces between the stars, and then Lily Potter's body went too-still once more.

Only then, when the red headed woman once more became nothing more than meat and bones, did the shadowy figure shift from its kneeling position to slowly begin to approach the crib and its quietly crying occupant. Closer, now: it paused at seeing the all-too familiar edge of a jawline, the arch of a brow, the shape of a mouth. Features muddled and distorted with baby fat and childhood softness--but the promise of adulthood was there, if one knew where to look.

The figure gave a death's rattle chuckle, reaching out with a boney hand to gently cup a tear-stained cheek. "Hello again, old friend," it whispered, words as quiet as a breeze that wound amongst the graves of a cemetery. Death took a step nearer the toddler's crib, grip shifting just enough to coax the child's face upwards so that it could finally meet his old friend's gaze after far too long a time apart. It took quite some time but, eventually, the child eventually looked up towards the thick hood that obscured Death's face.

And it looked into Killing Curse green eyes.

Death paused at the sight before it, shock evident in the way it went deathly still: eventually, however, it gave another wheezing chuckle, thumb brushing away the tears that continued to fall from the child's eyes. "Hello, _Master_."

***

_The Department of Mysteries, 1996_

"NO!"

Watching Sirius fall through the Veil, seeing the last chance he had at gaining a family, knowing that one of his remaining connections to his parents had just slipped away--it was something that Harry refused to acknowledge, refused to accept. He had so few _good_ things in his life and, while Sirius wasn't _perfect_ , he was still _Harry's_ and that was all that mattered to the teen.

"No! No, _Sirius_!"

Harry clawed at Remus' hold on him, desperate to be released, desperate to run towards the Veil; what he'd do when he'd reached it... the green-eyed teen didn't quite _know_. But it would be _something_ , anything at all: a soul-deep desire to bring back what had just been taken from him. Harry ignored Remus' frantic cries for him to calm down, to come away, to come with him. In all honesty, with all of the training that he'd put himself and the others in the DA through this past year, it took less than a thought to send a non-verbal stinging hex towards the older man, forcing Remus to let go of him with a surprised, pain-filled yelp.

Finally free of the hold that had been keeping him back, Harry darted towards the Veil, dodging the spellfire that continued to erupt around him, rolling and ducking and swerving with the ease of long practice. In the end, it only took a few moments--moments that stretched into an eternity--before he finally stood before the Veil. Remus' shout of "Harry, _no_!" was something that came at a great distance and was easily ignored. The sound of battle faded away, becoming nothing more than a distant, unimportant murmur: _this_ was what was important.

 _Find your center. He still remains in the Between Place,_ a voice whispered against the shell of Harry's ear and, briefly, the teen felt the too-cool brush of fingers against the frantically beating pulse of his throat.

Taking a deep breath in order to steady himself, Harry braced one hand at the edge of the Veil's doorway to give himself an anchor and then plunged his free hand into the doorway, reaching past the death's shroud touch of the Veil. He _reached_ , fingers reaching outwards and desperately grasping for the soul that he had been told was still salvageable. With all of his focus on the chill that surrounded his arm, feather-light touches of souls already passed on, it was easy enough to ignore how the battles around him had paused, stopping completely, while wizards and witches turned to watch something that _should have been impossible_.

It was easy enough to ignore when Voldemort stepped onto the battlefield, crimson eyes trained on the boy braced against the edge of the Veil.

What felt like forever and a day later--but was actually just several minutes--Harry breathed a quiet " _Ah!_ " that echoed 'round the Chamber, and then he _pulled_ , stepping away from the Veil as he did so. The arm that emerged was pale from the cold, the sleeve of his robes rotted away and left in tatters--but the teen was otherwise, surprisingly, unharmed. As older members of the Order of the Phoenix and Death Eaters alike inhaled in shock, Harry gave another grunt of effort and yet again _heaved_ to step completely away from the Veil.

The teen wasn't alone.

Sirius Black came tumbling out of the Veil: skin pale, lips blue, and robes nothing more than scraps of fabric--but somehow, impossibly, _alive_. His chest expanded with a rattling inhale, breath wheezing as the Marauder gasped for air: but still he _breathed_.

Harry's legs gave out as exhaustion overcame him, relief a bubbly, all encompassing sensation that settled over his shoulders--making him feel lighter than air. _Because Sirius was alive_. Harry had done it; he had managed to bring Sirius back from beyond the Veil.

Breath shuddering out of him in a relieved sob, Harry finally glanced upwards as the silence of the Chamber managed to catch his attention. Witches and wizards were still, all attention directed towards him and the impossible feat the teen had just managed to accomplish: and so, too, a pair of blood-red eyes _stared_ , filled with avarice and greed.

***

_Number Four Privet Drive, 1996_

Harry rarely received mail over the summer unless it was from either Hogwarts or his friends. Weeks would typically pass in silence, locked away in his bedroom unless the Dursleys needed him for one chore or another. It was a dreary, lonesome way to spend the summer--but it wasn't like Harry had any choice otherwise.

The was why the owl had been so unexpected.

Weeks before his birthday and longer still before he expected his most recent Hogwarts list, the owl came tapping at Harry's bedroom window. Curious to see who would actually be bothering to send him a letter, the teen crawled out of his bed and made his way across the moonlight dappled floor to open the window as far as it was able. The delivery owl hooted at Harry, remaining still long enough for the green-eyed boy to untie the package it carried from its feet before winging off, not bothering to wait for a response.

"...that's weird," Harry murmured quietly to himself, brows furrowing before his attention shifted to the package he'd been left with.

Much more cautious now, the teen poked and prodded at the wrapping before finally diving in when nothing untoward happened during the initial inspection. Upon opening the box, however, Harry yelped in startled fear and scrambled away from the package that had been sent from him, his breathing loud in the sudden silence of his bedroom.

The package tipped over, causing Wormtail's head to roll out of the box, dismembered arm--Dark Mark bared for all to see--following after.

*

_"Haaarrryyy..."_

The whisper was sibilant, barely audible for all that the teen could feel his name murmured against his skin. Fingertips ghosted against the wing of a shoulder blade, too cold and faintly scaly. Harry shivered at the touch, murmuring sleepily even as he burrowed in deeper into the silk sheets that lay beneath him. He was comfortable and warm and _safe_ and wanted nothing more than to let sleep wash over him once again, to drag him under and into its encompassing embrace.

_"Haaarrryyy..."_

The whisper came again, words followed by the soft press of lips against the back of the boy's neck. That... that wasn't right. Or familiar. Harry had never had a dream like _this_ before... had he? Again: his name was whispered for a third time, words layered with the hissing of snakes, accompanied with the idle, indulgent feeling of fingers combing through the thick mess of Harry's hair. The fingers tugged, hold tightening just enough to force the teen's head upwards--to _look_.

Dreading what he'd see--already knowing, instinctively, what awaited him--Harry's eyes slowly opened. Black silk beneath him, a bed he'd never seen before, cool sheets pooling decadently at his waist, and _red eyes_.

Harry's own went wide with fear and shock, and he inhaled in preparation for a scream--

And then woke up.

*

The next owl that brought Harry a gift came a week and a half later. Though the teen was wary and almost refused to open the package, his curiosity--in the end--was too much to resist. He still poked and prodded at the box cautiously, uncertain as to what he'd find in the end.

Even as braced for any and all potentialities as he was, Harry was still taken aback by the gift that Voldemort had sent him this time: Bellatrix's dismembered body.

Harry stared down at the package for long moments after initially opening it, remembering her gleeful cackle as the spell that _should have_ killed Sirius struck true. Remembering, too, the stories he had heard but wasn't supposed to know about Neville's parents. Remembering the look on Neville's face the day that not-Moody had shown them the Cruciatus Curse in class.

And Harry...? Harry couldn't help but be _glad_.

He made Bellatrix whisper all of her secrets to him before setting fire to her remains. Before her soul faded away into less than dust and ash, however, she whispered one last secret to Harry--one that was not quite her own to give but one that she offered up to the teen nonetheless.

_...Horcrux..._

*

Harry kept his eyes closed as he felt a pair of too-cool lips linger over the vertebrae of his spine, the gentle scrape of sharp incisors following soon after. His fingers curled in the silk sheets beneath his body, pressing belly and hips harder against the bed as he ignored the heat that pooled hotter and hotter still with each indulgent kiss pressed to the vulnerable line of his spine. Tried to pretend to himself that he didn't anticipate each touch, each kiss, each nip that lingered long enough to mark and claim--

Kept his eyes closed to keep from acknowledging to himself that Harry _wanted_ this.

And, as long as Harry kept his eyes closed and pretended to remain deeply asleep, he could remain in the gray-tinged area where this was happening _to_ him--instead of the very real fact that he wanted this, waited with baited breath in the space between kisses, between touches; could ignore, too, that he _knew_ whose too-cool mouth those lips belonged to.

It was _wrong_.

But, as a long fingered and surprisingly elegant hand caressed over the bare expanse of Harry's ribcage, the teen couldn't bring himself to care.

*

"My Lord."

As one, the Death Eaters knelt before Voldemort's throne, bowing even further down as fists pressed to their chests. Their body language oozed submission and deference: no one dared to lift their heads to meet the Dark Lord's crimson gaze.

Masked by the shadows behind the throne, Harry watched the proceedings with a jaded, experienced eye. This wasn't the first time, after all, that he had been drawn into a vision during one of the Death Eater meetings.

\--it was the first time, however, that a presence settled at his back, arms curling possessively around his stomach.

 _"Look at how they kneel, how easily they give up their pride and their dignity to him. How easily they relinquish their power, Haaarrryyy..."_ the voice whispered in his ear, lips brushing against the arch of a cheekbone. _"How easily they beg for any scrap of attention, of approval from me. How **pathetic**..."_

One by one, the Death Eaters crawled towards the Dark Lord's throne, foreheads brushing against the stone of the room's flooring until they came to his feet, pressing lips reverently to the man's feet before crawling backwards to resume their previous positions. Less servants and more slaves: mindlessly willing to indulge their master to avoid punishment and to receive reward and praise. _This_ was what Harry was supposed to face against?

_"Imagine the power you would wield should you join me. Haaarrryyy..."_

Harry breathed deep, chest expanding wide, lungs filling with air as he made to speak--

And opened his eyes to stare up at his bedroom's ceiling.

***

_The Shrieking Shack, 1998_

Slytherin's Locket was a heavy weight around Harry's neck, but he did not allow it to bow his head as the teen stood up from the pile of boxes he had previously been hiding behind. The Dark Lord paused before Severus Snape, Nagini a multi-jeweled weight over Voldemort's shoulders.

"Enough," Harry said, bright green gaze resolute as he met and was matched by crimson eyes. " _Enough._ No more killing. If you continue the way that you have, the only kingdom you'll have will be one filled with skeletons and ghosts."

Snape shuddered at the proclamation and kept his head lowered.

"What does that matter to me when I know you have the ability to bring them back?" Voldemort asked in turn, stepping away from the prostrate Potions Master to make his way closer to the teen. "What does that matter to me when, with you at my side, I will rule over a kingdom where death has no meaning?"

"That is not for you to decide, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

The shadows in the room deepened, becoming midnight-dark, before a hooded figure stepped out of them to stand just behind Harry's shoulder. Finger bones wrapped around the handle of a huge scythe, shifting its hold on the dangerous weapon before pointing it at the Dark Lord. Continuing, Death said: "The only one to determine when and where death holds meaning is my Master."

One by one--as if summoned through time and space itself--Voldemort's various Horcruxes appeared, materializing on the floor between Harry and the Dark Lord. The older man's gaze went wide in shock and fear, and he took a step back--both from the knowledge that Harry _knew_ what he had done to protect himself against death, to ensure his own immortality, as well as the... _being_... that stood at Harry's shoulder. That called the teen _Master_.

"You know, over the past year, I started reading the pamphlets that you put out when the Death Eaters were the Knights of Walpurgis--and you tried to make your changes in the political arena," Harry began, mouth twisting thoughtfully as he looked down at Voldemort's scattered trinkets. He paused, weighing his initial decision for a long moment, and then eventually continued. "You had some strong points. You could have made a difference. Now... that's all gone. You kill the people you wanted to guide. You taint the society you wanted to improve. _No more killing._ Find a different way."

The Horcruxes suddenly flared with light--and Voldemort began to scream.

***

_The Ministry of Magic, 2008_

Harry Potter had not been seen by the public in over ten years.

Harry Potter also did not look a day over seventeen.

He strode down the hallways of the Ministry of Magic, cloak billowing behind him, moving past groups of Ministry employees that clumped amongst themselves--gawking at the sight they never thought they'd see--all while heading towards the fall session for the Wizengamot. Whispers and cries followed in his wake, but nothing could--or would--make Harry slow down or stop.

Before the would-be teen could enter the chamber for the parliament meeting, however, someone finally was able to get him to stop. Glancing down at the fingers curled around his forearm, Harry's bright green gaze flickered up to meet muted red.

"Good afternoon, Minister Riddle," Harry said, one side of his mouth curling upwards as Tom Marvolo Riddle's eyes widened further: seeing that it was truly Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Disappeared--gone without a trace during the Battle of Hogwarts; seeing, too, what coat of arms the obvious lord now sported.

"Good afternoon... Lord Peverell," the Minister of Magic replied, gaze staring--unseeing, as a multitude of thoughts moved like quicksilver through his mind--at the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. "...I had always been under the impression that the Potters were descended from Ignotus."

"They are," Harry answered easily enough. "But the Peverell lordship is earned, not given. There are several... criteria... that one needs to meet before obtaining the lordship." It was obvious enough what 'criteria' that needed to be, considering the cloak at Harry's shoulders, the wand holstered safely in its harness, and the obsidian-dark gem resting in a torque at the hollow of Harry's throat.

The Minister's fingers tightened around Harry's arm, possessive and claiming, and gently tugged the younger man closer to him. Ten years of building everything from the ground up, ten years to make changes, to try again--ten years to realize the damage his Horcruxes had done to him, ten years to realize that he still had one Horcrux remaining. Ten years to linger on the dreams that he and Harry had shared, the feeling of warm skin beneath his lips, the dark look that settled upon the teen's features as he watched Voldemort's followers kneel and grovel. Ten years to search, to want, to wait, and now--

Tom Marvolo Riddle _wanted_.

"You've done well with your second chance, Lord Voldemort," Harry said--and smiled.

::end::


End file.
